


Lullabies

by sidewinder



Category: Foo Fighters, The Police
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-01 01:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18790339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidewinder/pseuds/sidewinder
Summary: “Fine. Be cruel and heartless towards your suffering husband.”“I’m not being cruel. I’m trying to save you from further suffering.”





	Lullabies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ApexOnHigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApexOnHigh/gifts).



Stewart checked the time—both here at home in L.A. and also in London. That’s where Taylor currently should be, on tour with the Foos. Another month before he’d be home. It was just past five p.m. here, so after 1 a.m. in England. Taylor usually called after a show, once back at his hotel. A quick check-in to blow off a little post-show adrenaline, rave about a good night, or bitch if things had gone wrong.

It was past time that he should have made that call unless for some reason the show had run or started late. So Stewart was a little, if not overly, concerned. He didn’t want to come across as a hovering or excessively-anxious spouse, and there was always a chance he got caught up in an after-show party or entertaining unexpected guests. But something instinctual told Stewart to try making that call himself. Just to be sure things were okay.

So he called the familiar, saved number. After four rings and right before it went to voice mail, Taylor picked up with a groggy, _“Hey, Stew.”_

“Hey yourself, Sunshine. Did I wake you up?”

 _“Nah. I wish. Sorry I forgot to call before.”_ There was a pause and sound somewhere between a sigh and a painful grunt coming from the other end of the line.

Stewart frowned, worried his instincts were correct. “Are you okay?”

_“Kind of. Not really. Managed to fuck myself up on stage tonight. Nothing serious, but...feels like I threw out my lower back.”_

“Ouch. That’s serious enough.” Stewart had done that himself on more than one occasion, so he knew Taylor had to be hurting. Playing the drums was physically demanding to begin with, and Taylor was a _very_ physical player. Sometimes to his detriment.

_“Guess I got a little caught up in my solo tonight. Twisted somethin’ in the wrong direction. Zigged when I should have zagged.”_

“Yet another reason I maintain that drum solos should be permanently banned.”

 _“Yeah, well…”_ There was another weak grunt on the other end of the phone. _“Tell that to Dave and the rest of the band. They love their mid-set beer break while I’m up there workin’ my ass off.”_

“I _will_ tell him, next time he’s over for dinner. When’s your next show?”

_“Thankfully not tomorrow. Got a day off, which I plan on spending in bed as much as possible.”_

“Wish I was there to spend it in bed with you.”

_“Doubt I’d be good for much of any action in my current condition.”_

“That’s far from the only reason I would want to be there with you, and you know that.”

_“Yeah, I do. Sorry.”_

“It’s all right,” Stewart insisted, and then sighed. He could hear that Taylor was hurting, and it was tough to only be able to provide comfort from afar. But that was how things were for them, so often. Taylor was always busy touring and Stewart had his own projects frequently taking him all over the world. Still, it worked for them because they both knew how it went, what to expect in the musician’s life. And it made the time they did have together at home that much sweeter and worth savoring.

“You should get someone to work on that tomorrow,” Stewart suggested. “A masseuse or chiropractor. In fact I know someone I could hook you up with in London, if—”

_“Don’t worry, our tour doc already has someone lined up for me. That and I’m planning on some good long soaks in the tub. My room’s got one of those big ones, y’know, whirlpool jets and everything.”_

“Nice. And don’t forget to take some aspirin for the inflammation.”

_“Already done. But nothing heavier than that.”_

“I know better than to even suggest it.” Taylor was stubborn on that point, for very obvious and understandable reasons. Pain killers had led him down a path toward substance abuse and hard drugs that had nearly killed him once, so he was adamant about avoiding them now. But it was hard for Stewart to hear him in pain and know there was nothing he could do to help make it better. “Listen, you need your rest so I’ll let you go.”

_“Actually—”_

“Yeah?”

_“Yeah, um...feels good just hearing your voice. I’m not gonna be gettin’ to sleep easy in the state I’m in, so...if you’re not busy…”_

“Even if I was, I’d always make time for you. And you know I can talk yours or anyone else’s ear off on request. Unusually people are telling me to shut up and not otherwise.”

That did manage to get a small chuckle out of Taylor. _“Yeah. So feel free to blab away at me. About anything. What did the dogs get up to today?”_

“Our rambunctious furry children? They were a handful as usual.”  Stewart regaled Taylor with the day’s doggy misadventures—some real, some rather exaggerated for entertainment purposes. And then he continued on with how things were progressing with his latest commission, a short opera which was set to premiere early the following year.

_“Can’t wait to hear that one when it’s done. Though I still think you should take one of the roles on stage yourself.”_

“Please. I usually suffer enough mortification from the reviews. We don’t need to add criticism of my singing talents or lack thereof to the mix.”

_“I like your singing.”_

“You, Bud and Phaira. Sadly  no one else seems to share your enthusiasm.”

_“You could sing me a lullaby right now. That might help me get to sleep.”_

“I haven’t had my nightly tequila yet. And that’s the only way you’ll get me singing you to sleep over the phone.”

_“Fine. Be cruel and heartless towards your suffering husband.”_

“I’m not being cruel. I’m trying to save you from further suffering.”

_“All right, party-pooper. Then I’m gonna try to get some sleep.”_

“You do that. And call me tomorrow—when you’re up, and hopefully feeling a little better, okay?”

_“I will. Love you. Even if you won’t sing me to sleep.”_

Stewart sighed, and rolled his eyes. “Love you, too. And maybe skip the solos until you’re feeling better? Trust me, the audience will thank you for it, even if the band won’t.”

_“Yeah, sure. Talk to you tomorrow.”_

“Until then.” And Stewart hung up, shaking his head. Maybe he'd record something special for Taylor tonight in his studio...send it to him as a messaged surprise for when he woke up in the morning. Once he'd had that tequila to loosen up the vocal chords. Maybe he'd even write him his own special lullaby.

Anything for his sunshine.


End file.
